Singapore has no seasons. The gardens insist otherwise.

The island does not do autumn. It does humidity, rain that arrives like a thrown bucket, and the occasional haze that makes the bay look like a poorly washed window. Inside the conservatories the operator runs a different calendar: displays that pretend, quite charmingly, that we have a temperate year. I enjoy them. I also treat them as optional, because a garden that needs a theme to be worth visiting is not a garden I trust.

Floral displays that behave like seasons

Tulip season is the one that fills the dry dome with people who would not otherwise walk around a baobab. It is pretty. It is also crowded, even on weekdays, because everyone has seen the same photograph. If you care about the tulips, go at opening. If you care about having room to stand, go on a Tuesday that is not a public holiday and accept that some beds will still be busy.

Sakura season — cherry-blossom dressing, lanterns, the whole borrowed spring — is similar. It photographs well. It is not Kyoto. Say that to yourself before you are disappointed. I like it as theatre. I do not like it as a reason to bring three generations at noon on a Sunday.

Christmas displays arrive when the year is tired. More lights, more families, more people in the bay anyway because of the light show outside. The conservatories feel festive. They also feel like a shopping mall that learned horticulture. I still go, early. I still leave before the coaches.

Between those peaks the flower dome returns to orchids, succulents, and whatever the gardeners are proud of that month. Those are my favourite weeks. Fewer costumes. More plants.

Haze months

Some years the sky goes milk-tea and the PSI becomes a household conversation. The outdoor gardens and the supertrees suffer first: you will not want a long walk, and the view from the bay is a smear. The conservatories are still air-conditioned. That is not a medical recommendation; I am a retired teacher, not a clinic. It is an observation: if you already planned the glass, haze is a weaker reason to cancel than a fever. If you planned only the outdoor loop, postpone. There will be other evenings for the free light show.

I check the haze the way I used to check whether a field trip needed a wet-weather programme. If the air is unpleasant, we stay indoors. If it is merely unattractive, we still walk, slowly, and we do not jog.

School-holiday crowds

March, June, September, November — the local calendar, plus the visiting-school weeks you cannot predict. The flower dome becomes a corridor. Children are not the problem; volume is. I like children. I taught them. I do not like being unable to turn around without consulting four pushchairs.

If you can only visit in the holidays, do it at opening on a weekday. Do not do both domes if the first one already used your patience. The mountain with a jammed walkway is how families start snapping at each other over nothing.

Weekday versus weekend

Weekday mornings. Always. I will keep writing that until someone tattoos it on the underpass. Tuesday and Wednesday are the kindest. Friday already thinks it is the weekend. Sunday afternoon in the dry dome is the contact sport I complained about on the front page, and I will not recant.

Evenings are a different visit: hotter outside, prettier on the supertrees, and the conservatories may run shorter last-entry rules. I am usually gone by then. If you come for the free light show, you do not need the glass at all. Pair the show with a walk and a satay stick, and go home without a sore neck from a walkway.

Rain is not a season here; it is a personality. The conservatories are an excellent wet-weather plan. The outdoor gardens are not. If thunder is sitting on the bay, I stay under glass or I stay home with tea.